


Golden Fires in the Dead of Night

by spidersman



Category: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 06:31:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18360554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spidersman/pseuds/spidersman
Summary: “What do you think my forgiveness looks like?”sneered the dark voice. The words wrapped around the boy’s throat, restricting his air and making it hard to breathe. Jesper woke that night choking, sweat dripping down his forehead as he tangled in silk sheets that felt like fire against his skin.----In the nights following the auction at the Church of Barter, Jesper finds that the sleep he so desires doesn't happen as easy as he hopes. Set a few nights after the auction and before the last three chapters ofCrooked Kingdom.





	Golden Fires in the Dead of Night

**Author's Note:**

> i know im late to the series but God do i love the the dregs i binged read the six of crows duology in like a week and shat this out at 4am in a manic insomniac state. i am now obsessed with six of crows and the grishaverse. i haven't written a fic in years but i hope u enjoy and excuse any mistakes/mischaracterizations

Sleep has never come easy for Jesper. Even as a child, his mom often had a hard time wrangling him to bed, full of boundless energy and life at such a young age. With the Dregs, it was the ever-looming chance of getting attacked that kept him up. He’d lay in bed with his guns tucked close beneath his pillow or on his person, always ready for a fight, always prepared. No one ever sleeps in the Barrel anyways. 

Tonight, it’s the nightmares that keep him up. 

Jesper isn’t really sure when he’s last had a nightmare. Lack of sleep meant lack of dreams, and when the sharpshooter did find himself dozing it never lasted long. But that was before their Ice Court heist, before Inej had gotten kidnapped, before the Dregs were running and hiding for their lives from everybody in Ketterdam. By the time it was all over, every muscle in Jesper’s long body ached for rest, and he was sure he was sporting a handful of new bruises. 

The first night had been the worst. Between sleeping on hard concrete and dirt floors for weeks, a guest room at a mansion was more than appreciated, but the humble farm boy paid the actual room no mind. Instead, he went straight to the bed with open arms, falling face first into the plush furniture, not even bothering to take off his shoes. 

“Don’t suffocate yourself in those things,” Wylan had said with a laugh as Jesper dug his face deeper into the pillows, breathing in the clean scent of roses. He never got a chance to reply finding himself drifting shortly after, the exhaustion hitting him like a Tidemaker’s wave. 

That night, he dreamt of a farm on fire. The smell of burning _jurda_ attacked his nose as familiar voices- a man and a woman- carried through the smoke, calling for help. Jesper could only stand idly by and watched with horror-stricken eyes. His feet were rooted to the ground, unable to move, and he could feel a looming dark presence behind him. It laughed at him, deep and taunting. A disconnected voice from another whispered close in his ear.

_“You almost got us all killed.”_

Jesper shuddered at the familiarity and could do nothing more. But the sound of the woman’s cry in the fire jolted him awake as he recognized the voice as his mother’s. He stayed up that night staring out the bedroom window overlooking the vast garden below, a pistol nervously twirling in his hand.

The following night was no better, the nightmare the same as before, except that time he was closer. The fire raged on, flames licking the sides of the simple farmhouse, and the voices inside still continued to cry out to Jesper for help. He could make out his father’s voice among the pair now. Still rooted in place, the Zemeni tries to call out to them but finds he has no voice, throat dry from the oncoming heat that radiated off the burning home. 

_“What do you think my forgiveness looks like?”_ sneered the dark voice. The words wrapped around the boy’s throat, restricting his air and making it hard to breathe. Jesper woke that night choking, sweat dripping down his forehead as he tangled in silk sheets that felt like fire against his skin. 

Tonight, he refuses to sleep. The nightmares plague his mind even as he’s awake, the images of the burning farm etched in Jesper’s brain. He wonders if it’s an omen, the Saints above him giving him a sign of a distant future. He thinks of his dad. He misses his mom. It’s easier to push the thoughts away during the day when he’s running around with Wylan, either helping him settle into his newfound role or distracting him from it. But when the sun sets and they all say their good nights, Jesper isn’t too eager to go to bed. Instead, he slips out into the hallway, too anxious to stay in his room. 

The boy makes easy strides through the hall, having no real destination in mind but needing to let his energy out. His eyes roam as he studies the landscape paintings that decorate the white walls, briefly wondering if they were Mayra’s. 

A few months ago, you would usually find Jesper making rounds around the Barrel at this time of night, testing his luck at the cards and raising the stakes. The adrenaline would course through his body with every card drawn and every _kruge_ bet, sending his heart racing. The sound of shuffling cards put him at ease like shooting his favorite guns, and the boy’s fingers twitch at the memory. He can’t lie and say he doesn’t miss the gambles, and Saints does he crave that rush now more than ever, but he can do better than that. He has to. Jesper’s hands reach for the comfort of his pistols at his sides until he remembers that they’re back in the room, tucked under his pillow. He supposes he doesn’t need it around the mansion anymore but he can’t help but feel naked without them. 

Rounding the corner, Jesper looks up and passes by large arching doors. An intricate gold design borders it, sweeping loops and twirling vines leading grey eyes. The sharpshooter had studied the layout of the Van Eck mansion like Kaz had wanted them all to and he recognizes this room as the master bedroom. Jan Van Eck’s room, or at least it used to be. Jesper assumes this is where Wylan has taken up residence. He knocks on the door without thinking but doesn’t get a response. 

“Hey, Wy, you up in there?” he calls through the door. Silence. Impatient, he doesn’t wait for a reply and pushes one of the doors open. Peeking his head in, his eyes quickly scan the room. “Sure hope you don’t sleep in the nude!”

Jesper’s talking to an empty room. His eyes land on the large bed in the center of the room adorned with deep red and gold settings. There was a whole fort of pillows at its head, but it looks as if it hasn’t been touched for days. Jesper tries to ignore the feeling of disappointment. 

Retreating, he continues down the hallways, another destination coming to mind. The little demo expert could only be in one other place. Resisting the urge to run, he makes his way through the dark manor, keeping to the shadows in habit as his long legs lead the way. A few turns and down a flight of stairs later, Jesper spots the pair of doors he was looking for. Not as fancily decorated as the master room, the entrance here is sported by thin pillars on either side. As he steps closer, he notices one of the doors slightly ajar, spilling moonlight down the hall. He peaks through the opening. 

Wylan is seated across a large white grand piano, fingers floating above the keys as if he were performing, eyes closed in peaceful concentration. The scene is eerily familiar, but this time he’s more than confident he’s got the right boy. Entranced, the Zemeni can’t help but watch, eyes following Wylan’s hands. They drift easily, barely touching the keys and hardly making a sound. If he listens closely, he could hear the other hum. He wonders what song he’s performing and if he’s got an audience in mind he’s playing for. Eventually, Jesper’s patience wears thin and he finds himself waltzing into the room unannounced. 

“When are you gonna play me a song?” he greets with a teasing smile. Wylan’s head snaps in his direction, his fingers freezing mid air, and Jesper easily spots the beginnings of a blush. “You going to serenade me too?”

Wylan shakes his head and snorts. Jesper can’t help but smile just a little wider. “Saints, no. I’m not as good as you’d think.” He retracts his hands towards his body and Jesper has to resist the urge to reach for them. 

“I like to think I can sing. I’ve been told I’ve got a nice baritone.”

The Kerch quirks a brow. “Did you now? Maybe he was lying.”

“Oh, but he would never lie to me,” Jesper purrs, seating himself next to Wylan at the piano. He bats his eyes at him and gets a kick out of it when Wylan flushes and looks away. 

“What are you doing up anyway? It’s late,” the younger teen asks, gaze still focused out the window. The full moon tonight serves as the only light illuminating the music room, streaming through the large glass windows that stretch to the ceiling. It washes everything in a soft, pale glow. In this light, Jesper swears he can see shades of black blending in with Wylan’s golden red locks. 

“I could ask you the same question,” he quips, trying not to stare at the other’s profile. “Maybe I was looking for you.”

Wylan glances at him, blue eyes reflecting gold for a brief second in the light, a small smile played out across his lips. “Sure you were.”

“You weren’t in your room.”

“The nursery?”

“No, you big baby, the master bedroom. Your old man’s old room?”

Wylan makes a face that Jesper can’t quite read, mouth forming a line. “That isn’t my room.” Jesper’s brows knit together. 

“What do you mean? Where’ve you been sleeping then?”

Wylan averts his eyes again, this time glancing across the room. Jesper follows his gaze, finally noticing the loveseat against the other wall. A thick blanket covers one arm of the chair, a pillow nestled beside it. The marble table across from it was littered with Wylan’s music sheets and drawings. Some of them looked new, the Zemeni notes. 

“How have I not noticed that here before?” Jesper wonders out loud. They’ve been to the music room countless times since their return. It was Wylan’s favorite place in the mansion, yet the boy still has yet to perform a piece for him. 

Wylan shrugs. “Well, I do know how to clean up after myself.”

“Why not just take your dad’s room?” Jesper asks, but he knows why. He wouldn’t either, not after everything Van Eck did. Still, he continues, running his mouth like he always does. “I thought you would at least get a kick out of trashing it.”

A tiny smile tugs at Wylan’s lips. “I don’t deny that doesn’t sound appealing.”

“We can get started with that right away, you know,” he offers. He’s only kind of joking. Trashing the old merchant’s room sounded like a great distraction and a perfect way to let off some steam. He can’t really shoot his guns around here at this time of the hour. 

A comfortable silence settles between the two, Jesper patiently waiting for an answer he doesn’t really expect as Wylan goes back to staring out the window. It’s a beat before Wylan finally shrugs. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I can’t really sleep much. Not after...” He trails off.

“Everything.” Jesper finishes. The redhead looks up at him and he finally notices the tired look that’s settled across the boy’s face. It doesn’t sit right on his soft, young features. Wylan only nods as Jesper clenches his fists at his sides, desperately wishing he had his pistols to grip. 

“Yeah, me too,” he admits. “There have been a few... bad dreams.” The boy cringes at himself, instantly wishing he could take that admittance back. Wylan doesn’t need to know this little farmer’s struggles when he has his own problems to work out. It‘s not important anyway. 

Jesper stares at the black and white keys in front of him as he can feel his leg start to shake with untapped energy, drumming his fingers against his sides. This feeling he’s come to recognize easily: the shakes and jitters and unease he starts to feel when he’s been sitting still for too long, when he’s got nothing to hold on to or nothing to do but has everything on his mind. It’s always suffocating. 

He startles when he feels another hand cover his, Jesper’s skin cooling at the touch. His body had been feeling like fire lately, clothes too warm and sun too hot against his skin. But now he feels a chill run through him starting from the tips of his fingers, curling his toes. He resists a shudder. Glimpsing towards Wylan, he’s pleased to see the Kerch’s ears pink at the tips, facing him but refusing to meet Jesper’s eyes.

“Yeah... me too...” Wylan says in a low voice, mirroring him. He runs a thumb across the Zemeni’s calloused fingers, eyes watching his own movement. Jesper wonders what he’s thinking. Years on a farm and wielding guns provided him with a strong grip, but he’s almost embarrassed about it in comparison to Wylan’s long graceful fingers. How did he manage to keep his hands so soft after all the rough things they went through?

Jesper stares at Wylan’s face in the silence, studying his renewed features. Golden red locks framed a pale face, freckles dotting across the planes of his nose. He had missed looking into those big blue eyes that reminded him of a lost prince. The merch practically is one. _He used to have more freckles_ , Jesper can’t help but notice.

Wylan squeezes his hand, reassuring the sharpshooter like the way the weight of his gun would. It comforts him just a little. “It was the farm,” Jesper finds himself spilling quickly, the weight of the words heavy on his tongue. Just like his body, his thoughts are restless and need a place to go to. He notices the smile on Wylan’s face falter. “My dad... my mom-“

“Jes, you don’t have to -“

“And Kaz...” Wylan looks up at that, eyes locking with his, a look of understanding flashing across his face. If he has questions about it, the merch doesn’t ask. 

_“What do you think my forgiveness looks like, Jordie?”_

The phrase still rattles on inside Jesper’s mind, tossing and turning in his head, literally haunting his dreams. He has no idea who Jordie is and has learned better than to ask, but the Zemeni still felt the deep cut of those words like a knife in his chest. The duo has since moved past their squabble, but even then the words still hung in the air. Kaz had said them to him, honest and brutal. Even if he got his name wrong, the anger was never misplaced. He had deserved it then, maybe even deserves it now.

_“You think you’re a gambler, but you’re just a born loser.”_

Jesper avoids the pair of eyes he could feel watching him, looking anywhere but. Despite towering over the other, the older teen feels small in this moment, as if he was shrinking into himself. Being without his trusted pistols made him feel underdressed enough, but being around Wylan like this made him feel absolutely naked and bare, afraid of saying too much and being too honest. Being an honest man never suited him well.

Finally risking a look, he catches bright blue eyes staring up at him. There’s not a single trace of judgment in them like Jesper was expecting like he was used to from everyone else. Instead, the merchling looks at him with a patient gaze, their eyes locking again. It brings him back to when they first met at the tannery; a face hidden behind long curls and dye stains, eyes shining with confidence and determination that Wylan had yet to discover. He remembers losing his breath as he stared into them - like the bright skies above Novyi Zem - his mind going quiet for the first time in a long time. Jesper’s voice catches in his throat as he experiences that all over again. 

“My dad-“

“Is safe on a boat and should be arriving in Novyi Zem any day now,” Wylan cuts him off, reading the concern in Jesper’s face and squeezing his hand. “We’ll visit him soon.” The Zemeni’s heart lurches as he catches on the word _we_.

But what would Jesper find there waiting for him? The burning remains of the farm and his home? Can he even call it home anymore? The Barrel used to be home, his new family the Dregs, but now he feels he has nowhere else to go. Their problems with Van Eck and Pekka might be over but all it did was create a new set of worries within him. Who was he now if not a gambler or a Dreg fighting for his life? Certainly not a Grisha, if he even wants to call himself that. At least he can still wield a gun. 

_“What are you afraid is going to happen if you stop?”_ Wylan had asked him not too long ago. 

_Exactly this_ , he thinks now. Where does he go from here?

“Your dad and the farm are safe now,” Wylan reassures him again when Jesper gives no response. “Thanks to you, Jes.” He’s trying to be comforting, but Jesper almost wants to tear his hand away. 

“ _I’m_ the reason why it was burning down in the first place!” he snaps, too aware of the analogy he’s making. He can feel the itch starting to return as the large room seems to close in on him. His finger twitches. “I’m the reason why my dad almost lost _everything_. He came to Ketterdam looking for me, because of me, and he- he could’ve been-“ Jesper chokes on his words, eyes starting to sting. He recalls the tired grey eyes of his father, honest and trusting, going wide with horror when the first bullet was shot. Before he left, his son noticed the new lines forming on his face. Colm Fahey had aged drastically in his short visit to Ketterdam, and Jesper had done that to him. It was his fault. It always was. The room starts to spin.

He doesn’t realize his free hand is digging its nails into his leg until Wylan places another hand over it, leaning in close. _“Breath,”_ he whispers gently, voice as soft as his curls. It washes over Jesper as he takes a shaky breath, closing his eyes. He breathes. And then he breathes again.

“I’m still scared,” he admits in a voice so hoarse and quiet he’s not even sure Wylan hears.

“Me too.”

“He could’ve died. He could’ve gotten killed.”

“You could have, too.”

Jesper opens his eyes. Wylan is still watching him, but this time there’s a sadness hidden behind the bright blues of his. It hits him now - when they all went their separate ways during the auction, the briefest thought had occurred to him. _Will I ever see them all again?_ They were all supposed to make it out alive. Not everyone did. Wylan could have been one of the lives they lost. The thought makes him grip his hand tighter. He couldn’t bear to lose someone else. 

“It was all my fault...” Jesper mumbles, referring to more than just his father. But Wylan shakes his head, his shoulders lifting in a shrug. 

“What’s done is done. You can’t change what you did or what happened, but you can definitely stop it from happening again,” the merch says almost matter-of-factly just like he says everything else. The message rings a familiar bell. _Mati en sheva yelu._ This action will have no echo. Hadn’t Inej taught him that and hadn’t he promised his father the very same thing?

For a moment, the two sit in silence, staring into the other’s eyes. Jesper tries to convey all his thoughts, feelings, and fears in a single look, desperately hoping for... Understanding? Acceptance? He wasn’t quite sure anymore. 

Wylan is still leaning into him, face close enough that Jesper can count all his little freckles like stars dotting his skin. His eyes open like ocean waters drag him out to sea and swallow him whole, taking his very soul. But the water isn’t cold and he doesn’t feel himself drowning or choking, only floating. The waves are calm and the sky reflecting above him is as blue as the water he’s swimming in. There’s a glimmer of gold from the sun, and Jesper finally welcomes its warmth. It’s quiet. 

Jesper doesn’t realize he’s leaning towards Wylan until their lips are firmly pressed together. A tremor passes through him, shaking his whole body before he finally relaxes and stills. He sighs into the kiss. Slipping a hand from the merchling’s, he reaches up to gently cup his face instead, his thumb passing over his freckled cheek as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss. 

Saints, he hasn’t gotten a chance to kiss Wylan like this since the very first time, the days following full of paperwork and transferring properties and tying up any loose ends with Van Eck. Even Wylan’s teased “down payment” was just that- a tease. But this- this was better. There was no rush to part away, no chance of death looming over their heads, no crazy scheme to get back to. Any intruding thoughts he had disappeared in a calm storm, mind clearing as if the clouds parted ways. There’s no itch, all there is is this moment now, Wylan and him alone in this room. 

Jesper is still terrified but he finds himself realizing, _This is where I’m supposed to be._

Eventually, they reluctantly pull apart, the need for air almost stronger than his need to kiss Wylan. Almost. When he opens his eyes, he’s greeted with a cheeky half smile. Jesper’s heart skips. 

“Sleep in my room,” he suddenly blurts out, breaking the silence. Wylan lets out a laugh that Jesper can listen to for days, his cheeks pink but with a confused look on his face. 

“Is that how you try to bed me?” he teases with a quirk of his brow. 

Now it’s Jesper’s turn to go red. “First of all, who even says it like that besides old men and prude virgins? And that’s not what I meant. Yet.” The merch’s cheeks darken. “I mean, you don’t have to sleep in here- you shouldn’t. As nice as this room is, your bed looks a little cramped there.” His head jerks to the seat across the room. 

“My bed isn’t so bad,” Jesper offers then quickly makes a face. “Well, I guess technically it’s your bed. And your room. And your mansion.”

“Actually, the papers aren’t finalized-“

“ _Wy._ ” Wylan just grins. If he wasn’t feeling absolutely exhausted, Jesper would kiss that smirk right off his face. 

Standing up, Jesper offers him a hand. “You coming to bed or what, merchling?” Wylan’s only reply is a toothy grin, slipping a hand in his. 

That night, the fire Jesper dreams of is golden red and warm like the sun with eyes blue as the sea, and finally, he sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> no mourners, no funerals.


End file.
